


Make Me Feel Like I am Breathing

by splot



Series: Slipping Off The Course That We Prepared [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, a lot of anti-ian, almost, it's not happy for most of it i'm almost sorry, not really - Freeform, whoops i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:52:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1618316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splot/pseuds/splot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time it happened it was an accident.<br/>Everyone had been begging Darcy to bring Ian--Ian the intern, Ian Boothby, Ian the boyfriend--along to Friday Night drinks at Tony's favourite club.<br/>She in turn had begged him and pleaded, and he'd refused point-blank; no reasoning. Darcy Lewis was not one to take no for an answer without a good reason, and it had sparked a fight, ending with her storming out, heels clicking angrily.<br/>It's the night her life turns upside down</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Me Feel Like I am Breathing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rainne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainne/gifts).



> I was listening to A Little Death-The Neighbourhood  
> I am not sorry at all. (maybe a little)

The first time it happened it was an accident.

Everyone had been begging Darcy to bring Ian--Ian the intern, Ian Boothby, Ian the boyfriend--along to Friday Night drinks at Tony's favourite club.   
She in turn had begged him and pleaded, and he'd refused point-blank; no reasoning. Darcy Lewis was not one to take no for an answer without a good reason, and it had sparked a fight, ending with her storming out, heels clicking angrily. 

The club was full of New York's wealthy youth, using their parents' cash on bottles of champagne and VIP tables that are abandoned in favour of rutting in the guise of dancing.  
The doorman recognizes her instantly, and one of the wandering security guards escorts her to Tony's table, already filled with Avengers and companions. They greet Darcy loudly and cheerfully--well, all except James Barnes. He rarely went by Bucky, and most just called him 'Barnes', Darcy being one of the few to call him James.

He slides down his bench seat for her to sit as an already full glass is placed in front of her. She looks up in time to see Natasha retracting her hand, and takes an experimental sip. It's fruity and delicate, but there's also the tang of the alcohol settling on her tongue and she decides she likes it. 

"Berry Sangria." The redhead answers before she can ask, and Darcy decides this is her favourite drink of them all.  
"Darcy, where's the boyfriend? Didn't you say you were gonna bring him?" Sam Wilson asks, lifting beer to his lips.

And, aw, she had just been starting to feel better after the fight with Ian. She scowls into her glass, half-draining it. "Let's not talk about Ian."

"Oooh, trouble in paradise?" Tony sings mockingly, and both Pepper and Bruce subtly digging their elbows into his ribs.   
"If he has wronged you in anyway, Darcy, I can... have words with him." Thor says, and Darcy pinches the bridge of her nose.   
"The acid arrow can 'accidentally' go off in his belongings." Clint smirks.  
"If you want, I can just talk to him. Actually _talk_." Steve tells her gently.  
"I can castrate him." Natasha offers mildly, and every man at the table instinctively flinches. 

"Okay, can we not focus on my lovelife?" Darcy asks desperately. She's drained her glass now, and it's whisked away by one of the staff only to be replaced with another that she eagerly downs.  
"Seriously, Darce, if something happened with Ian--" Her glass slams against the table, cutting Jane's words short.   
"I don't want to talk about Ian. I don't want to think about Ian. In fact, I don't want to think at all." She says clearly, silencing  the table. "I want to drink and I want to dance."

She doesn't know why she does it. The man has more issues than Vanity Fair, he's fucked up beyond belief, but she does, and it's the beginning of her downward spiral.   
Darcy turns to James, holding her hand out impatiently. "You dance or what, Barnes?" 

Surprisingly, he accepts.

The group watches on, gaping as Darcy pulls James out to the dancefloor. For someone with as many problems as him, James is surprisingly good at what counts as dancing in the modern day. His front is flush against her back, hands on her waist as their hips move in tandem with the sensual beat. He's got his head lowered, hair falling over his face as he says something that makes her laugh, rest her hands on top of his and lace their fingers together, slide them down to her hips. 

If Darcy could pinpoint the moment her life derailed, it was then.

* * *

 

"Should we... break that up?" Clint asks uncertainly as the song changes and Darcy turns, her front flush with his, one of his legs falling between hers.  
"it's just a dance." Natasha says, more concerned by her empty glass, waving a waiter over to refill it.  
"That's more like clothed sex." Tony exaggerates, and there's a collective groan from the group.   
"They aren't even the most explicit couple on the floor." Bruce points out-- but that's all he says on the matter; he's put his two cents worth in.  
"Darcy's just blowing off steam." Jane wrinkles her nose at her poor wording as Tony sniggers, but barrels on anyway. "It's not like she's cheating or anything."  
"You're all worryin' over nothin'." Sam rolls his eyes, "They're comin' back. S'just a dance."  
James and Darcy return smiling. They don't act any different than before, and all worries immediately dissipate.

* * *

 

it's just hit three in the morning when they all decide to turn in. Most are residents at Stark Tower, and hitch a ride back with Tony. James and Darcy share a cab to Brooklyn. They talk quietly, and sometime during the ride Darcy's hand laces with his.   
When they pull up at his building, he asks if she wants to come in for a coffee. She accepts.

* * *

 

The two steaming mugs sit on the coffee table as Darcy yawns and lays down across the couch, her head in his lap. 

He knows he shouldn't. She knows she shouldn't encourage, but Ian pissed her off so much and James was the only one who didn't try and interfere and he's the only one who never mentioned the Englishman all night, who helped her forget.

"Darcy?" He asks curiously when she sits up, suddenly wide awake.

She knows she shouldn't but she does, straddling his lap, her tight skirt rucking up around her hips and revealing the smooth pale expanse of her thighs. She shouldn't, but she lets her arms fall loosely over his shoulders, fingers tangling in the too-long strands of his hair.   
She shouldn't, but she does; she leans forward and presses her lips to his, a chaste kiss that slowly evolves into something filthy and sensual.

He shouldn't encourage her, but he does, running his hands up her legs, letting her have full control of the kiss.   
He knows he shouldn't, but he slowly unbuttons the delicate crimson blouse and lets it slip from her shoulders, revealing the lace of her bra and the pale glow of her skin.   
He shouldn't, but he does, as they remove each other's clothes and he seats her on the couch, kneeling in front of her and sending her over the edge with his fingers and his mouth, before finally letting her lower herself onto him to bring him over with her.

* * *

 

The morning brings guilt and shame, and Darcy thought she would never be this kind of girl, but it's apparent she is, and she wants to get out fast.  
He's awake from the first shift of the bed, and he sits up with the blankets falling around his hips, watching her dress and pull her makeup from her bag, carefully concealing each visible mark he left on her. Finally, she pulls on her shoes and her coat, but she pauses at the bedroom door. 

"This never happened." She says softly, her back still to him. 

"Understood." He replies, and she's gone as soon as the word leaves his lips.

* * *

 

The second time it happens, it starts off as comfort.

She's debriefing Steve and James at the latter's place, working out public appearances and making sure each are attending meetings and appointments. She never asks what happens at their meetings with the therapists, and they don't tell her. It's private, they'd reveal if necessary. 

James has a dark air about him today, and she knows the only thing he had on was a meeting with his therapist. She needs to make sure he's stable before she leaves, so when Steve offers to give her a ride home, she waves him off, mentioning speaking to James about some minor problems-"my fault, Steve, I was half-asleep while scheduling things and double-booked..."- and closes the door behind him. 

When she turns, James is standing at the kitchen counter, a bottle of vodka in his hand. He takes a swig straight from it, and that's when she knows his session mustn't have been pleasant.

"Whatever you're gonna say, stow it." He snaps as she opens her mouth, bringing the bottle to his lips. "In fact, don't open your mouth unless you're gonna wrap those pretty little lips around my dick."

And of all the things he could've said, she did not imagine he would say that. She fights the flush that works its way up her neck at the image, at the memory, and forces herself to focus on the task at hand.

She strides forward, forcefully pulling the bottle out of his hands and dropping it in the sink loudly. He starts to protest, but she just wraps her arms around his waist, holding him tight to her. It lasts a few minutes before he finally relaxes and reciprocates the embrace. They're silent for a few long moments before she speaks.

"Bad session?" She asks softly, looking up at him. He nods, pressing his lips to her head.  
"Really bad, Dar." He mumbles, eyes shutting tight. "I started to-- to remember what I did--"

She doesn't know why she chooses to do it, but she silences him with the press of her lips on his.

"Hush now." She murmurs against his mouth, a tender smile gracing her own as she drops to her knees, fingers working deftly at his sweatpants to push them down his legs. She raises her eyebrows at the bare skin underneath, half-surprised by the fact he goes commando. "Let's not talk. Your conditions, remember?" 

He knows he should stop her, this is _wrongwrongwrong_ , but he's gone from the first touch of her tongue, flesh hand sliding into her hair, guiding her gently as she draws moans and pleas from his lips. 

There's a hand-shaped dent in the kitchen counter by the time she's done, standing as she swipes a hand across her chin. He doesn't waste time pressing his lips to hers, licking filthily into her mouth and lifting her to sit on the counter. She starts to protest, saying he doesn't have to, but he silences her with a simple look. While that darkness from before is less intense, it's still there. 

He pushes her skirt up to rest at her waist and quite literally rips her underwear off, one hand pinning both hers to her stomach, the other holding her hips down as he buries his face between her legs to return the favour, throwing her over the brink without warning and straightening to push inside her before she's even finished. It's the best and lowest moment of her life.

* * *

 

Later, when she's dressed and presentable, foregoing underwear and stuffing them in James' trash can before leaving, she drops 'round Clint's building with some reports for him to sign. Unexpectedly, he questions why she's walking odd. _New shoes and a spill in the communal kitchen when she was cleaning up after lunch_ , she tells him.  
It's only when she leaves that he remembers he helped her clean up, the shoes she'd been wearing were her worn-in flats, and he's sure he doesn't remember a spill.

When she takes off her coat at dinner that night, Ian asks what the red marks on her collarbone are. She puts a hand over the stubble burn, feeling the heat of the abused skin. _Reaction to her new scarf,_ she says. _Serves her right for buying cheap,_ she says. 

He accepts the lie without a care. She wonders when she got so good at lying. That night, when Ian tries to slide his hand up her skirt in the doorway to her apartment, she's still sore from the brutal fucking (there was really no other way to describe the... whatever she and James were doing) and she has to push his hand away, claiming exhaustion. Ian calls her _a damn tease, he could tell she wasn't wearing anything under that skirt, leading him on and turning him down just because she thought she was so superior and she could._ He turns and storms away, and Darcy slams the door, sliding down it and sitting against it, wondering when  she became this person. 

* * *

It happens again, and again, and again, and again, until they're caught by Steve.

Darcy's relationship with Ian was out of convenience. They really had nothing in common. Sometimes he made her laugh, or he made her happy, but other times she wanted to strangle him or throw the towel in. 

The night they were caught was the latter.

* * *

 

"You're always with them, Darcy," He says. "You need new friends, Darcy."   
"What's wrong with the ones I have?"  
"They're... super, Darcy. They're not really on your level."  
"My... my level? What do you mean?"  
"They're heroes, Darcy. You're just a lackey to them, do you really belong in that world?"

She didn't even dignify it with a response. She grabbed her coat, bag and slipped back into her red heels (the so called 'fuck me' heels Natasha had insisted she buy) and stormed off, heels clicking angrily as she slammed the door.

* * *

 

She kept promising herself she wouldn't end up here.

They'd finish fucking, she'd dress silently and leave, promising she wouldn't do it again. And here she is.   
Whether her timing is perfect or James somehow saw her, Steve is leaving just as she pulls up. She idles and takes her time paying the cabbie, waiting until Steve's rounded the corner before stepping out. She storms up to James' apartment, knocking twice before he opens the door, surprise written on his face, although he barely had time to say a word.

She kicks the door shut behind her as she pushes past him, dragging him over to the couch and pushing him to sit. He opens his mouth to say something but she's already stripping. The black coat gives way to a slinky red number, which gives way to black lingere complete with a garter belt and stockings. 

"Jesus..." He breathes as she straddles his lap, heels still on. His hands stroke reverently down her sides. He should stop encouraging her. He should. "Wear this for me?"

"Ian." She scoffs, so much contempt in the word he actually flinches, "Would've been wasted on him, if he stopped talking long enough to see it." She's worked off his shirt, leaving him in his sweatpants as she frees the front clasp of the scrap of lace masquerading as a bra. He's not given another chance to speak as she lowers her lips forcefully to his, hand moving between them to stroke him to full hardness as she licks filthily into his mouth. He wonders what got her so angry. He wonders why she's still with Ian. He wonders why she came to him, after everytime she's walked away swearing up and down to him that it was the last time--

"Hey, Buck, forgot my phone--Oh! Shoulda knocked--"

They're both broken out of their haze, gazes instantly snapping to the door, and Steve stares in shock as her face is revealed. James instantly covers her with his shirt, and she slips it on without protest.   
"Take your phone and go, Rogers." James snaps as Darcy climbs off him, pulling the hem of the shirt down. Steve slips his phone into his pocket, eyeing them both warily. 

"I thought you were having dinner with Ian tonight, Darcy." Steve asks, and its like the blow physically hurts. Her expression says all Steve needs to know. His eyes move to James, and then his expression hardens. "Bucky?"  
"Leave." But Steve stands his ground.  
"How long has this been going on?" He's quiet until Darcy answers in a small, wavering voice. 

"That night we danced. Three months."   
"Why would you do this, Buck? Never known you for a grass-cutter before." Steve demands of James, turning to Darcy before he has a chance to reply. "And you. I thought you were better than this, Darcy." 

The disappointed look on his face physically hurts her, and she wraps her arms around her midsection, eyes lowered as Steve continues. "Not only are you being unfaithful to Ian, but Bucky's not in a great state of mind yet. You're takin' advantage of that, Darcy, and I thought you were better than that."

Her knees give out, and she sits on the couch, trying in vain to keep her tears silent. 

Seeing her cry angers James more than anything. Seeing her try to hide it makes it worse. He stands, bionic fingers wrapping around Steve's upper arm, walking him forcefully to the door and pushing him out, despite protests, slamming the door shut behind him. He stands at the window, waiting until Steve's bike has roared noisily down the street before returning to Darcy. 

She's kicked her heels off, curled up with her legs to her chest and her head on her knees as she sniffles quietly. Her breath hitches every now and then, like she's attempting to stop herself crying. 

Before that night, Darcy Lewis could count the amount of times she'd cried in the past three years on one hand. 

Quietly, James stripped her of the shirt, garter, the stockings and placing them with her bra and dress. He sat behind her and carefully pulled the pins from her hair,  letting it tumble gently around her shoulders. She still hasn't looked up, and so he stands, an arm sliding under her knees and the other one cradling her back as he carries her to the bedroom.  

She should leave-- Steve was right. She was wrong. This was wrong. 

  
But James doesn't give her a chance, placing her on the bed. He turns away for a few moments, sweatshirt in hands when he returns. He slips it over her head, and she automatically pushes her arms through the sleeves. "Sleep, Darcy." His voice is gentle, despite the anger from before, the anger she could still see simmering in his eyes. She doesn't move, and so he kneels on the floor in front of her to be at eyelevel.

"Hey." She can't look away, no matter how much she wants to. His right hand, the warm human one, brushes against her cheek. "Steve doesn't know squat, Darce. I'm fucked up, yeah, but I know that I want this. You. S'far as I'm concerned, Steve can go fuck himself." 

She doesn't say anything about Ian. He doesn't say anything about Ian. They're both thinking it, but no-one says it.

Darcy shuffles under the blankets as James switches off the light and climbs under the blankets with her. He tucks them around her, holds her close. Her head rests over his heart as he presses a soft kiss to her hair. He can tell she's still awake and thinking, so he starts to hum, a soft, low tune. Then he opens his mouth and starts to sing quietly, and Darcy's lulled to sleep to the sound of the Russian lullaby.

* * *

The night it comes crashing down on them is the following saturday. 

Tony invites everyone for dinner, and for once, Ian only puts up a token of resistance. Steve spends the night trying not to throw accusatory glances her direction. Ian keeps prodding her to leave.

It's grating her nerves. 

She's in the middle of a conversation with Kate Bishop, Clint's protégé, when Ian pulls her aside. "Can we leave soon, Darcy?"   
She sighs, smiling apologetically at Kate as she checks her phone and turns to Ian. "It's not even nine, Ian, it'd be rude to leave so early."  
Without another thought, she turns back to Kate, only to hear Ian's muttering. 

"Shoulda just stayed in London--"

"Why didn't you?" She says under her breath, but not as quiet as she thought. Kate slinks off to Clint as Ian speaks up again.

"What'd y'say?" 

Between Steve's looks and seeing James, Ian was the last straw. When Darcy Lewis snaps, she snaps hard.

"I said, why didn't you? Nothing's keeping you here." She snarls, and Ian looks equal parts confused and angry. Her voice was louder than she thought, and the room falls silent.  
"I... What about you?" He asks, and Darcy laughs, high pitched and hysterical. She sees James out of the corner of her eye taking a step towards her before Steve pulls him back with a shake of his head. 

"Like I said, nothing's keeping you here." She can feel her world falling apart piece by piece,  but Ian's still not getting it, he needs it spelt out for her. "I'm not keeping you here. I'm not going back to London with you. God, Ian, you're so fucking ridiculous. You insult me, you insult my friends, my worth, then expect me to put out for you and do what you ask!" 

It slips past her lips before she can stop it.

"For the love of God, Ian, I've been fucking around behind your back and you still think there's something for you here!"

The minute she says it, she wishes she didn't. If the room hadn't been silent before, it was now.

Ian's face is pale, hurt, angry, confused. Her hands are shaking and she's breathing unsteadily. She sees James moves again out of the corner of her eye, and Ian's eyes flick towards the movement. James stills, and Darcy knows what's coming as she sees Ian's face clear with understanding. His eyes turn back to her, and it's just anger now.

"Who?" 

Everyone's waiting with bated breath for Darcy's answer, but her gaze is locked on the floor, keeping quiet.

"Dammit, Darcy, tell me!" It's the first time she's heard Ian raise his voice and she flinches, the name falling from her lips without her permission. 

"James." Everyone's gaze locks on James, but he holds himself tall. Steve's hand has fallen off his shoulder, and he's pinching the bridge of his nose. Bruce is taking deep breaths-He's not built for this kind of stress. Give him Calcutta any day. 

"Him?" Ian's voice has a derisive tone that makes half the room tense in warning, protectiveness, despite what they've just learnt. "So you've been whoring around behind my back with some bloody basket-case murderer--"

He's on the floor before he can say anymore, although no-one can recall Natasha moving. Ian clutches his bloody nose, groaning in pain.   
"It appears you have overstayed your welcome, Ian Boothby." Thor rumbles quietly as Natasha stands over him. "Captain Rogers shall escort you out." 

Steve steps forward and hauls Ian up off the floor, and Pepper's already there with Ian's coat, holding it out to him. "Jarvis, book Mr Boothby a one way trip back to London for tomorrow."

"Of course, Miss Potts." Comes the cool British voice as the elevator doors close. Darcy sits down, fearing her legs ability to hold herself up anymore. James attempts to move forward to comfort her, but Natasha's there first, wrapping an arm around her and gently coaxing her up and to the stairs that lead to the Avengers quarters without another word to the waiting group. James makes a motion to follow, but a quick look from Natasha stops him in his tracks. _Let me deal with this for now,_ the look says. _She'll come to you when she's ready._

He nods, though he's not happy about it as he makes his way to Stark's bar. 

* * *

  
Once they're safe in Natasha's private quarters, Darcy's tears slip loose.

"Such a despicable human being," She's muttering, "So stupid."

"He is." Natasha pushes forward the box of tissues and begins to make coffee for the both of them as Darcy sits at the counter. She lets out a watery, bitter laugh.  
"Not Ian. Me." She clarifies, attempting to wipe away the smeared makeup on her cheeks and around her eyes. "He's right. I should've broken things off instead of opening my damn legs to James everytime something went wrong."

"Stop." Natasha's tone is quiet and commanding as she places a mug in front of Darcy and leans against the counter cradling her own. "Answer me this, Darcy. Why were you with Ian?"  
It takes a few moments for Darcy to comprehend the question, and another few to come up with an answer. "Convienience." She says into her coffee. "Didn't see anyone else lining up for me."

"Stop." Natasha says again, and Darcy realises she means the self-depriciating tone. "Were you happy with Ian?" 

"No." That she can answer with ease.

"You said yourself, he insulted you. Insulted your friends. What kind of relationship is that?" It's a rhetorical question, and Darcy keeps her eyes locked on her mug. "Are you happy around James?"

"Yes." The answer slips from her lips without even having to think about it, and Natasha nods.

"And you didn't just let him use you as a place to warm his dick. You talked, laughed, stayed up all night spilling your secrets to each other, yes?" If Natasha's taking a guess or speaking from experience, it's spot on, and Darcy nods. "James is a lighter person now.  He does not see himself as merely a weapon of destruction anymore, something, I think, he owes to you. You make each other better. Maybe there was a better way you could've gone through with it, but was done is done."

Darcy hasn't looked up yet, crushing a tissue in one hand, the other wrapped around her mug as she contemplates Natasha's words. It caused a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, completely unrelated to the lust she felt for him. It was warm. Tingly. Strange.   
Finally, she looks up at Natasha. There's no judgemental look on her face, just a quiet understanding. 

"Why are you helping me? I'm..." Natasha's eyes narrow, and Darcy chooses her words carefully to avoid the self-effacing tone. "Not in the right here. You said yourself that I did things wrong."

A wry smile crosses Natasha's lips, filled with a slight bitterness.

"Adultery is the least of my sins, Darcy. I wish it were the only one. I am the last person to place judgement on you." 

* * *

  
Later that night, James lets himself quietly into Natasha's quarters. The first thing he sees is her red hair in the dim, flickering light of the television from where she's sitting on the couch. She raises one hand in a gesture to be quiet and beckons him over. As he nears, he sees her other hand moving repetitively, and looks down to see Darcy asleep with her head in Natasha's lap. Natasha's stroking her hair soothingly, and even in her sleep, Darcy looks upset still.   
"Took her a while to fall asleep. Take her to your quarters, don't wake her." Natasha murmurs, and James nods, although he presses a kiss to her cheek before lifting Darcy and taking her boots from Natasha.  
"Thank you, Talia." He says quietly, and she rolls her eyes.   
"I did it for her, stupid." She indicates to Darcy, who makes a small noise and shifts, wrapping her arms around James' neck in her sleep.

* * *

 

Back in his quarters of the tower, James carefully sets a sleeping Darcy on the bed, drawing the covers over her. She'd be uncomfortable sleeping her clothes, and he knew she hated sleeping in her bra, but he wouldn't risk waking her. He changes into his sweats and a loose shirt as he contemplates where to sleep--would Darcy be mad at him if he fell asleep beside her? In the end he sighs, climbing to the bed on the other side with the intention of keeping his distance.

That resolution is swiftly dismissed as Darcy instantly rolls over, curling around him and nuzzling into his warmth. Hesitantly, he wraps an arm around her and she sighs in content. After a few moments, James hears the hitch in her breath as she slowly starts to wake. 

"N'tasha?" She mumbles, not lifting her head, and James strokes a hand up and down hr back soothingly.

"S'me, babydoll." He murmurs, "M'sorry." He's apologizing for more than waking her up. 

"Can I borrow a shirt?" She lifts herself sleepily from his chest, and he grabs a folded sweatshirt from the nightstand, placing it on the bed and helping her as her sleepy fingers fumble the buttons of her shirt. 

 

It's different, undressing her like this. There's no lust involved as he helps her out of her skirt and shirt, and unclasps her bra for her to slip off, helping her into the sweatshirt. It's tender, and warm, as she curls back into his side, still half asleep and slipping further away as he makes sure she's cocooned warmly in the blankets. It's a feeling he always has around her. Makes him feel less tool, more human. He wouldn't be able to cope without her, can't see himself without her, and remembering the person he used to be before her makes him all the more terrified to lose her.

_Love_ , his mind whispers quietly. _You love her._

_You're not allowed to love,_ adds the snide voice of the soldier.

_Yes you are,_ murmurs a voice that sounds like the woman asleep against his side. 

_Don't get my hopes up_ , he tells them all.  
\---  
Darcy wakes warm and comfortable, and she doesn't open her eyes immediately. Someone is playing with with her hair and watching her. She's wrapped around them, and immediately she knows it's not Natasha--her head rests on a flat chest. 

Vaguely, she remembers waking in James' arms, but it felt too good to be real--It had to be a dream. 

But when she opens her eyes, she's confronted with a familiar jawline, a hint of silver sticking out of the collar of a shirt. He knows she's awake, and she knows that. So she sits up, rubs her eyes, and avoids looking at him.

"I'm sorry." 

Her posture stiffens when he speaks, voice husky and hoarse from disuse throughout the night. "For what?"

"Everything." A sound, and a wary glance up to the mirror opposite the bed shows him running a hand over his face as he continues. "Dragging you into my mess. Getting between you and Ian. For what Steve said." 

She tries not to hunch in on herself. She's been called a loose whore twice in as many days. She supposes she deserved it.

"We can stop. I'll get one of the drivers to take you home. I'll make Steve apologize if he hasn't already, Darcy--"

It's an almost violent flinch as he reaches for her and she pulls away, sliding gracelessly out of the bed, the sheets tangling around her legs as she does. 

"This is no-ones fault but my own." She says sharply, untangling herself. "I dragged you into this. Not the other way around."

And there it is, that low heat in his eyes, simmering anger as he sits up. "It takes two to tango, dollface."

"Yeah, well you weren't leading this dance, cowboy." She spits out, crossing her arms over her chest. He barks out a laugh as he, too, stands. "Why'd you even agree to this? I'm sure you have better places to wet your dick than in some filthy slut."

And the anger isn't low simmering anymore as he stalks towards her. And suddenly she's quiet, weak, backing up as he crowds her against the wall and rants.  
You think I just wanted a quick fuck? If I wanted that, I'd go to a whorehouse. I'm fucked up, doll-girl, I know that. But you are not a damn slut. You're more than that to me, and you're dumber'n I took you for if you don't see it."

He runs out of steam towards the end, shoulders slumping as he trails his fingers down the side of her face gently. "Dammit, Darcy. Nothin' killed me more than seeing you leave my bed every morning. You treat me like a human, not a monster, or a time-bomb."

She's staring up at him with wide eyes, questioning, confused, not quite understanding.

"Darcy." He sighs, resting his forehead against hers and closing his eyes. "I love you." 

He doesn't want to see her reaction of disgust. Of fear. Hate. 

 

He is surprised, then, when soft lips brush gently against his own. He opens his eyes. Stares. 

She's staring at him, fond, exasparated, amused, although there is still an undercurrent of sadness.  
"You damn idiot." And she pulls him down for another kiss. 

 

They may not yet be okay, may not yet have sorted their problems, but it's as good an I love you as any.

**Author's Note:**

> whoops.


End file.
